The Killing 2

by David Hewson

  ‘Jonas?’ he asked.

  She walked to him, hugged him. He kept wearing the same fusty clothes, a black sweater, threadbare cotton trousers. His beard was starting to go grey, his face was thinner. There was a strength to him that always surprised her. He didn’t seem a muscular man. But it was there, inside him, visible in the blue-grey eyes that never seemed to rest.

  Jens Peter Raben was a sergeant in her father’s battalion. Someone his men trusted and on occasion feared. There was a fierceness and an anger to him that never waned, not that she felt it, ever.

  ‘They had a party in day care,’ she said, putting a hand to his cheek, feeling the bristles there. ‘The other kids pestered him . . .’

  ‘It’s OK. I understand.’

  ‘Have you heard from Myg?’

  Raben shook his head. Looked a little worried at the mention of the name. Allan Myg Poulsen was one of his team from Afghanistan. Active in the veterans’ club looking after ex-soldiers. That morning she’d called Poulsen, asked him to find a job for her husband.

  ‘Myg says he could get you some work. Building. Carpentry. Find us a home somewhere.’

  He smiled then.

  ‘Maybe if you’ve got the offer of a job . . .’

  ‘Maybe.’

  He always seemed so peaceful when she saw him. It was hard to understand why every application he made for parole got turned down on the grounds he was too dangerous for release.

  She’d brought some of Jonas’s drawings, spread them out on the table. Fairy tales and dragons. Castles in the sky.

  ‘Dad bought him a shield and a sword. He asked for them.’

  Raben nodded, said nothing. Just looked at her with his lost eyes.

  She couldn’t return whatever it was he wanted at that moment. So Louise stared at the wall beyond the window and said, ‘There’s not much going on really. If it wasn’t for day care. Living in barracks. It’s not right . . .’

  It was always her job to ask. She got up, pointed at the sofa bed.

  ‘Shall we . . . ?’

  ‘Let’s wait for a while.’

  He always said that of late.

  Louise stayed on her feet, was determined not to cry.

  ‘When do you hear about parole?’

  ‘Very soon. The lawyer thinks my chances are good. The clinical director says I’ve made good progress.’

  She looked at the wall again.

  ‘This time they can’t turn me down. They won’t.’

  The rain had started again. Other prisoners jogged past, hooded heads down, faces in the chill wind, bored, like him. Trying to fill the day.

  ‘They won’t, Louise. What’s wrong?’

  She sat down, took his hand, tried to see into his eyes. There was always something there she could never quite reach.

  ‘Jonas isn’t so keen to come here any more.’

  The expression in his face hardened.

  ‘I know you love to see him. I tried. He’s four years old. You were abroad when he was born. You’ve been here half his life. He knows you’re his father. But . . .’

  These thoughts kept haunting her and they were so very precise.

  ‘It’s just a word. Not a feeling. Not . . .’ She reached out and touched his heart. ‘Not here. Not yet. I need you home. We both do.’

  The sudden anger was gone, and in its place, she thought, came a little shame.

  ‘Don’t pressure him,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t.’ The tears were starting. She was an army wife, not that she’d ever wanted to be. This was wrong. ‘I don’t, Jens! But he’s not a baby any more. He won’t even talk about you. Some of the kids at day care have been teasing him. They heard something.’

  The look on his face, torn between grief and an impotent fury, only made her want to weep more.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She reached out and briefly touched his stubbled cheeks. ‘I’ll make it work. Don’t you worry.’

  ‘We’ll make it work.’

  She couldn’t look him easily in the eye just then. He knew this so he took her hands, waited till she’d face him.

  ‘I’ll get out of this place, Louise. They’ve no reason to keep me any more. I’ll get out and we’ll be a family. I’ll find a job. We’ll get a house. It’ll be fine. That’s a promise.’

  She tried to smile.

  ‘I keep my promises,’ he added. ‘We’ll be together so much you and Jonas will be sick of me before long. You’ll miss the time you had together.’

  Her eyes were closed. The tears wouldn’t stop.

  ‘You’ll hate the way I snore,’ he said, smiling, insistent. ‘The way I smack my lips and get toothpaste all over the place.’

  She laughed and didn’t know if she meant it or not.

  ‘I’m coming home,’ he said, and she couldn’t think of anything else to do except still his words and promises with a sudden kiss, hand to his head, a glance at the makeshift bed they put there for these visits.

  ‘Please, Jens. I need . . .’

  ‘Not here. Not this damned place.’

  He held her hands. The same man she’d met all those years before when she was an officer’s daughter, desperate to escape the tight, close circle of army life, certain she’d never fall for a soldier.

  ‘When we’re free I will . . .’

  Jens Peter Raben clutched her to him, whispered private promises into her ear, made her laugh again.

  Then, so soon, a knock on the door. Time had run out on them again.

  Before she knew it Louise Raben stood outside Herstedvester in the rain, looking at the high walls and the barbed wire, wondering what a promise from jail was worth.

  Brix was mulling over the latest interviews with Stig Dragsholm, the dead woman’s husband, when Strange got back from Gedser. He looked up from the files.

  ‘Sorry,’ Strange said. ‘Lund said no. She seems pretty settled down there.’

  ‘Settled?’ Brix asked, amazed. ‘Lund?’

  ‘You know her. I don’t. She looked fine to me. How’s it going?’

  Brix scowled. Strange’s phone rang.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘The chief’s busy. Can I help?’ An easy, confident smile. ‘Lund? You changed your mind. I’m psychic. See.’

  Brix snapped his fingers. Took the phone.

  ‘If you still think I can help,’ Lund said. ‘I’m back today for my son’s birthday. That’s the only reason. I can go over some papers if you really want.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t need you.’

  A long pause.

  ‘Why’s that?’ she asked.

  She sounded the same as ever. Steady, monotone voice full of awkward questions.

  ‘Get in here and let’s talk.’

  He heard the sound of a car horn down the line. Then, ‘I’ve got to go.’

  And the call went dead.

  Strange looked at him.

  ‘Is she coming or not?’

  ‘In her own time. There never was any other. We’re getting nowhere with the husband. I don’t know if we’re even close . . .’

  He stopped. Looked down the long corridor, with its black marble walls and bronze lamps shaped like old-fashioned flaming torches.

  Lund was walking towards them. Same steady stride, like a man, one with a purpose.

  Two years. The office was changed completely. Gone was the little bunker where she’d huddled together with Meyer. The place was open-plan now. Lots of people. And the ones who’d remained probably didn’t feel too warmly towards her judging by the glances she got as she walked through homicide.

  The woman he’d exiled to Gedser came up and stood in front of him. Strange might as well not have been there.

  ‘I’m not sure this is a good idea,’ she said.

  ‘Just read the files, will you? What harm can that do? I’ll pay you. Every hour you’re here. We’ll need . . .’

  She was doing what she always did. Looking round. Noting everything. Checking the changes.

  ‘This pla
ce was better the way it was before.’

  ‘I didn’t ask for advice on interior decoration.’

  Brix pointed Strange towards some desks.

  ‘Show her around. Find her the papers.’ He looked at Lund. ‘Read every last one.’

  She seemed content with that.

  ‘After that,’ he said, ‘there’s something I want you to see.’

  ‘I said I’d read the papers. That’s all.’

  ‘I need . . .’

  ‘One day. I go back to Gedser tomorrow.’

  ‘A woman was killed, Lund. Brutally. There’s something strange about it. Something I don’t begin to understand.’

  Her large bright eyes widened with outrage.

  ‘Don’t you have enough people here? What’s so special about me you send your messenger boy all the way to Gedser?’

  Strange had his hand over his mouth, stifling a laugh.

  ‘You’re here to see your family, aren’t you?’ Brix said with a faint, ironic smile.

  Lund struggled for an answer.

  ‘No matter,’ Brix said. ‘Just look at the files. And then Strange will take you for a ride.’

  The Justice Ministry occupied a block on the north-eastern side of Slotsholmen, close to the Knippelsbro bridge. Buch returned there after the formal reception with the Queen in the Amalienborg Palace, and was not in the least surprised that the first call on his mobile was from his wife.

  ‘Yes, yes, I shook her hand. I’m in the Ministry now. It’s um . . . a . . .’

  An office, he thought, much like any other.

  ‘Whose Ministry?’ Marie asked.

  ‘Mine, I suppose. I’ve got to go.’

  Then, still in the shirt and tie the Prime Minister had provided, he was guided round the department, introduced to staff high and low, and finally taken to a reception room where champagne was being served with canapés.

  A dream, he thought. And soon, thank God, I’ll wake up.

  A young blonde woman by the name of Karina Jørgensen had guided him round the building.

  Glass in hand, introductions seemingly ended, she led him into a small office with a desk and a computer. Buch sat happily in the chair, beamed at her and the few civil servants smiling indulgently around him.

  The radio said his appointment had been ‘unexpected’. Clearly these people felt the same.

  ‘This suits me well,’ Buch announced with a smile then picked up a pen on the desk, ready to wield it.

  ‘That’s my chair, Minister,’ the blonde woman said. She wrinkled her pale face in puzzlement as she leaned over him to play with the mouse.

  ‘What’s this?’

  There was a strange email on the screen. No subject. Just a link to a web page. And the message: Keep trying.

  She clicked the link.

  ‘Some idiot keeps sending us a stupid message. I don’t know how it gets through. It doesn’t go anywhere. Sorry . . .’

  The blonde woman walked over and opened a pair of double doors that led into what looked like a gentleman’s study from a country mansion of the kind to which Thomas Buch would rarely be invited.

  Portraits on the wall of ministers who’d preceded him, all the way back to the nineteenth century. A table for meetings. A shining mahogany desk.

  The place smelled fresh and new as if the cleaners had come in and removed every last trace of the unfortunate Frode Monberg.

  Buch walked to the window. There he could see the traffic racing across the Inner Harbour, hear the horns of the boats, feel the city’s pulse beating. Directly opposite stood the Børsen, the old stock exchange, with its curious spire of four dragons, tails entwined, fierce mouths agape.

  ‘We’ve a few things left to change,’ Karina said. Then, more tentatively, ‘It’s your choice to bring in your own assistant. Don’t worry about me. The secretariat can reassign . . .’

  ‘You know your way around this place?’ Buch asked, still captured by the portraits on the wall, the fighting dragons, the smell of this new place.

  ‘I’ve been here three years.’

  ‘Then my first decision in office will be that you stay. If that’s all right with you . . .’

  She had a round, fetching face, very pretty, especially when she smiled.

  ‘These things . . .’ Buch slapped the pile of documents on the desk. ‘I assume are Monberg’s.’

  ‘No.’ A tall man of around fifty, with short salt-and-pepper hair and serious, dark-rimmed glasses, walked in. ‘It’s the negotiation process for the anti-terror package. Carsten Plough, Permanent Secretary.’

  A firm shake of hands. Plough, Buch thought, was the epitome of every civil servant he’d ever met. Grey to the point of invisibility, polite, quick to smile, even quicker to look businesslike.

  ‘Where are we with that?’ Buch asked.

  ‘Facing a deal with Krabbe and the People’s Party. The Opposition won’t play. But you can read all about that. It’s in the papers.’

  ‘I will,’ Buch told him. ‘But first you must know my opinion. We’re at war. Whether we like it or not we have to find unity. Krabbe and the Progressives. I want to work towards a broad, inclusive agreement. War’s not a time for party politics.’

  Plough sighed.

  ‘That’s a fine sentiment. One Monberg shared. Unfortunately . . .’

  ‘I’m not Monberg.’

  Buch had stopped flicking through the papers on his desk. There was a set of photographs there in a folder. So bloody and brutal he thought this day had turned from dream to nightmare.

  A woman in a blue dressing gown tied to a post, covered in blood, livid wounds on her neck, her torso. Close-ups of a pale face, dead but still full of shock and fear.

  Plough stepped forward, hand to mouth, suddenly apologetic.

  ‘I’m sorry. I passed on Monberg’s files without checking.’

  ‘The woman at Mindelunden,’ Buch said, recalling the stories in the papers. ‘Is this her?’

  ‘Monberg took a personal interest. He asked to be kept up to date.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ Karina said. ‘He didn’t tell . . .’

  ‘He asked to be kept up to date,’ Plough repeated, a little cross. ‘I’m sorry. I can brief you later . . .’

  ‘If Monberg needed to know, then so do I,’ Buch told him.

  He wasn’t shocked by the sight of blood. Buch was a farmer at heart, a practical man, one who didn’t shy away from harsh realities.

  ‘Later,’ Plough promised, then walked forward and shuffled the photos back into the folder.

  Raben spent the day in the prison workshop, making bird tables for garden centres. Same design. Over and over again. He was getting good at it. Maybe good enough to get work as a carpenter somewhere.

  At some point in the afternoon he was supposed to hear about the latest parole request. He waited till four then, bored, getting tetchy, he slid out of the side door, walked over to the wire fence that separated prison from hospital.

  Director Toft, a pale, blonde woman, icily beautiful and aware of it, was walking along the path on the other side, headed towards the car park.

  Raben went to the fence, put his fingers through the wire, waited for her to stop.

  One of the guards had seen him, started yelling. Toft smiled, told the man it was OK.

  Raben’s heart sank. Kindness was usually reserved for bad news.

  ‘How do you think it went?’ he asked when the guard retreated.

  ‘I can’t tell you that. You should talk to your lawyer.’

  ‘He won’t be back till next week.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Then you’ll have to wait.’

  Toft started for the cars again.

  ‘This isn’t for me!’ he cried, following her on the other side of the fence. ‘My wife’s worried. I’ve got to call her. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Tell her the truth. You haven’t heard.’

  ‘I can get a job through the veterans’ club. Somewhere to live.�
�

  ‘I wish you’d said that before.’

  ‘If it’s bad, for God’s sake tell me now.’

  Toft stopped. Raben fought to keep his temper. This woman enjoyed the power she had over inmates. Liked to let them know that.

  ‘You’re approved as far as the medical staff are concerned. But that’s not the end of it. The final decision rests with the Probation Service. The prison authorities. So nothing’s definite.’

  ‘And if they say no?’

  ‘Then you wait six months and try again . . .’

  Raben tried to see into her cold blue eyes, to make some kind of human contact through the wire fence.

  ‘In six months I won’t have a wife. Or a son. She’ll give up on me.’

  ‘You have to be patient, Raben.’

  ‘I’ve been here two years. I’m fine. You said so yourself.’

  Toft smiled, turned and walked away.

  The guard started yelling again, ordering him back into the workshop.

  ‘I’m fine!’ Raben barked at her as she strode off to the psychiatric block car park.

  ‘Raben!’ The guard didn’t sound too mad. ‘A visitor wants to see you. Get in here.’

  He stuck his hands in his pockets, went back to the door.

  ‘My wife?’

  ‘He says he’s an army buddy. Myg Poulsen. Do you want to see him or not?’

  Raben watched Director Toft climb into her flashy little sports car, drive out of the gates.

  Allan Myg Poulsen. A skinny, brave little man. Raben couldn’t remember what happened in that dusty, cold house in Helmand. Just the sound of weapons, of screams, the shrieks of the dying, the smell of blood.

  But Myg was there. He was one of the damaged survivors too.

  ‘I’ll see him,’ Raben said.

  Lund read the files in the Politigården then, as the light was dying, Strange drove her to the dead woman’s house. Anne Dragsholm lived in a detached villa in a dead-end street ten minutes from Mindelunden by car.

  She walked round, documents in hand, talking mostly to herself.

  ‘So the husband says he came home, found the place covered in blood. Got spooked and drove off?’

  The house was cold, blocked from the outside world with Don’t Cross tape, covered inside with all the familiar stigmata a forensic team left behind. It had been two years since Lund last saw a murder scene. Might have been yesterday.